Tea Leaves
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Originally published separately as Emerald Green Lily and Earl Grey. Now a multi-chapter. Set post 6 x 17. Jane and Lisbon's relationship changes when her date with Pike doesn't go as planned. Rated T/M.
1. Emerald Green Lily

**Emerald Green Lily**

"I'm not starting. You look beautiful." The words were out of his mouth before he had the time to regret them.

He watched her face close down instantly. An second ago she'd been prepared for a verbal duel, and now that he'd truly complimented her, she'd shut down, put up walls.

"I hope he's taking you someplace nice," Jane said before things could get awkward. More awkward.

On second thought he didn't regret telling her. He should have told her she looked beautiful more often. She deserved to hear it.

"Cloth napkins and everything," she said. She looked up at the ceiling and not at him.

"Fancy. I hope you have a great time." He meant it actually. He did want her to have a great time. He wanted her to be happy because she deserved it.

He tried not to stare when she walked away, all shapely curves encased in black. Her heels… Apparently she'd grown more comfortable in them after their sting operation.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think of her perfume that was still floating around him.

Jane groaned, sitting up. The office was emptying out, most of the staff looking forward to some downtime. He wandered to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea. It was late and he would be up anyway, so he didn't worry about the caffeine.

He took a box of green tea—Emerald Green Lily—from the cabinet and poured hot water from the carafe into a mug. He let the tea steep. You had to be careful with green tea. You didn't want the water too hot, near boiling only. If you over-steeped the tea would become bitter, grassy.

When the water was a pale yellow he tossed the teabag and took a sip. It was a mild flavor, subtle, gentle on his tongue.

He wondered if there were emerald green lilies. Probably not. Emeralds were worth more than diamonds, he reflected, far more rare and valuable. Teresa should have an emerald engagement ring, he though. A solitaire, emerald cut of course, on a gold band.

He was standing there, sipping his tea, thinking about gemstones and lilies when Wylie walked in, looking a little worse for wear.

"You headed home?" Jane asked.

"No," Wylie said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out an energy drink. It was in an obnoxiously bright can that was too tall. "I'm working on this new program to enhance our facial recognition software. I really think I'm onto something. I don't want to quit now."

He looked eager, his eyes overly-bright with fatigue. Jane had seen the look on his own face before. "Well, don't stay too long. You don't want to become the guy who lives at work."

He said it in a manner that implied he was imparting wisdom onto his young protégé. He liked Wylie. He was guileless and eager, a younger, less confident Rigsby.

The agent turned to leave, then thought better about it and turned around. He seemed to be searching for words and Jane wondered what he was going to say. He couldn't always guess with Wylie.

"You know about the gorilla in the basketball game?" Wyile asked.

Like that. Didn't see that coming.

"Um, no," Jane replied wryly. He sipped his tea again.

"It's a selective attention test," Wylie explained. "You watch this video of people playing basketball and they tell you to count how many times the ball is passed. In the middle of a video a gorilla walks across the frame."

"But people are so focused on counting they don't see the gorilla," Jane finished. "The concept is the foundation of magic. Watch your card so you don't feel the magician slip another one into your pocket."

Wylie paused, then took a breath. "Well, I think that sometimes you can be the smartest person in the room, and if you're looking too hard at something else, you'll miss something amazing in front of you, you know?" He started talking faster, clearly uncomfortable. "It doesn't mean that you're not smart, or observant or intuitive, it's just that we all miss the big things sometimes. And it's okay. If we didn't life wouldn't be very exciting, you know?"

Jane was quiet.

"And I think when you finally see it, you should do something about it, the amazing things." Wylie turned a little red. "That's all. Goodnight, Jane."

He turned and scurried from the kitchen.

Jane sighed. He'd just been lectured on relationships by a socially inept computer nerd using a gorilla analogy. Excellent.

He dumped the rest of the tea and left the kitchen just as Cho came in, tossing an empty water bottle in the recycle bin.

"Did you hear that?" Jane asked.

"Yeah, Wylie called you an idiot," Cho said. "For the record, you are an idiot."

"Thanks," Jane said, brushing past him. "Have a good night."

"You could be having a really good night right now," Cho said after him. "Idiot."

It was the tone reserved for Rigbsy when he ate something off the floor. Jane realized how far he'd fallen.

Considering his sanctum sanctorum was now full of critics, Jane picked up his book and headed for the airstream in the parking lot. It was dark out now, most of the cars gone for the day. He went inside and shut the door, falling onto the fold out bed.

He wondered what Teresa was doing and immediately regretted it.

He could see Teresa in his mind. He could see her at the restaurant, enjoying the food, the wine. He could see her taking delicate bites of dessert, letting the chocolate melt on her tongue. He could see her stumbling outside after, maybe just a little drunk. He could see the goodnight kiss and then the slightly embarrassed invitation inside. He could see the zipper on her little black dress lowering, revealing secret inches of alabaster white skin.

What he couldn't see was Marcus Pike. No, in his visions he was the man on the other side of the table. His hands were brushing Teresa's hair aside as he kissed her neck. He was the one she leaned into, smelling of wine and chocolate and turning her face up to be kissed.

He opened his eyes, abjectly miserable. He hadn't been miserable since he killed Red John. Interesting. Misery was an old friend, and it settled into his belly, nestled there for the long term.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought of Lisbon that way before. It just hadn't been that…specific. That scripted out.

Sometimes in the attic or the CBI couch he'd wonder what she tasted like, what she would do if he kissed her. Sometimes at a crime scene she'd lean forward and he'd sneak a peek at her cleavage. He'd watch her ass her sway as she walked away. He appreciated her. He flirted with her. He liked that there was a tiny little spark between them without it being strange or uncomfortable.

This was different. This was… It wasn't wondering. It was yearning. He wanted to be Pike so badly in that moment that it _hurt._

It wasn't even that she was sleeping with him. He'd realized that this morning when he'd seen the cab. Of course, he'd suspected, but the confirmation made him nauseated. He wasn't sexist—Lisbon had the right to a sex life, and he had no illusions that there had been lovers before. He knew of some of them. He'd never been jealous of them before, just curious.

But yesterday morning he realized that Pike had spent time in Teresa's arms. He'd held her and kissed her. He knew what it was like to have Teresa touch him intimately, pleasuring him. He knew what she tasted like. That seemed like such a precious, sacred gift that it galled Jane that another man had it.

How had this happened so quickly?

When he came back to the States he told himself that demanding Lisbon's presence was about rekindling their friendship, their partnership. He also told himself that it was about re-instating a career he'd unfairly stripped her of.

Maybe it was that he didn't have Red John on his mind anymore. There wasn't anything to take the focus off Teresa. And now he was drowning in his yearning for cinnamon scented hair and her slender arms hugging him and her laughter.

_She was so beautiful. _ And she was right there, every day. Within arm's reach.

And he couldn't touch her. Not without being an ass about it.

Pike was a good man, a man he'd want for Teresa if he didn't want Teresa for himself. Pike would treat her like a queen and make her happy. And if he made a move on her now, Teresa would definitely be conflicted and it would screw up her chances with Pike. He'd be sabotaging her chance at happiness.

The best he could do was wait it out, hope things fell apart, and then move in. Hope she loved him.

Maybe she didn't, not that way. Maybe that's why her face looked so guarded when he told her that she looked beautiful. She found him attractive—the signs were there—but that didn't mean she _wanted_ him. He was a pain in the ass. A vagabond. He was a widower in ragged brown shoes without a place to call home. He wasn't exactly a tempting offer.

Maybe she just didn't like being dressed up and so obviously dating a coworker. Lisbon, the boss, would not have projected that image at the office for fear of damaging her reputation as a cop and a leader. The fact that she was doing it now meant she either didn't care or she liked Pike enough to risk it.

Neither answer made him happy. He turned on the radio for awhile, just to have another voice to listen to. Eventually he closed his eyes and began to drift off, troubled, never really falling asleep.

He could sense it was late when he heard his door open. He never bothered to lock the airstream. It was on FBI property after all.

He smelled her before he saw her, cinnamon and the bite of alcohol.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Lisbon, you okay?"

She wavered in his doorway, still in her dress and heels. Her face looked torn and miserable and her eyes were red.

"What happened?" he asked, his pulse kicking up a notch.

He wanted to ask if Pike had hurt her, but he didn't want the answer because it would potentially make him do something stupid. Like commit murder. Again.

"I think I'm drunk," she whispered.

"Okay," he said.

She was obviously drunk given her voice and the smell of wine and the way she leaned against the door for support. The Airstream was lit only by the pale glow coming through the windows, the sodium lights in the parking lot. Her hair fell down over her face, casting her features in shadow.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, starting to get up.

She held out her hand, stopping him. "I just don't want to talk about it okay?"

"Okay," he said again.

She stumbled as she pulled off her shoes, letting the heels fall to the floor. She dropped her clutch on the table and then crawled across the bed to him. He could taste his heart in his mouth. He laid back down and she rested her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. Her perfume was gone. Now he could just smell her shampoo and the wine she'd been drinking.

"I don't want to talk about it," she reiterated, tucking one hand between his shoulder and her cheek, curling into him.

Instinctively he pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She felt very small and warm. He used his other hand to tug a blanket over her.

She fell asleep quickly, her lips parting, her breathing heavy. She must have drunk quite a bit, he reflected. Her cheeks were flushed. He could see her freckles vividly.

Whatever Pike did it wasn't especially violent or cruel or she would have kneecapped him. No, something else was troubling her. If the date had gone that poorly she would have left before she had time to get sloshed.

He brushed her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

He wondered if she drove back to the office—hoped not. She'd need a ride home to change for work. Maybe her car was still in the lot. Maybe Pike had dropped her off.

He wondered if she'd ever tell him what happened. If he was a nice man he'd leave before she ever woke and save her the embarrassment of waking up next to him. He'd probably even leave her coffee and aspirin.

Until then he was going to sleep, his cheek against her forehead, her breath on his neck.


	2. Earl Grey

_**Earl Grey**_

_**This is rated M, but not for the reasons you want. Reviews are awesome. **_

"I'll have tea, Earl Grey, please," Lisbon said. The moment she ordered she wondered why she'd chosen that particular after-dinner beverage. She didn't like tea, she'd never had Earl Grey. That was what Jane drank in the morning. She assumed it was like the coffee of teas.

She was drunk. More than a little drunk. On her way to throwing-up-in-the-morning drunk. She had downed two martinis with Marcus before dinner, as they sat at the bar, his hand resting casually on her bare knee. Then there was the bottle of wine at dinner. It wasn't the merlot or Riesling or moscato she usually liked. It was a Malbec, deep and purple and tasting of earth and bitter things. She drank it anyway.

She didn't normally get drunk. The memories of her father's alcoholism hung in her mind, warning her that she was predisposed to self-medicate too. It would be so easy after every grisly case, every child they could not save, to drown out her sorrow in a tequila bottle. That was why she stuck to beer and wine, the occasional mixed drink, always socially, never enough to be drunk.

Except now.

She was having a good time. Marcus was telling her about his sister in St. Louis, and his two nephews who were hell on wheels. He obviously cared deeply about them. His ability to tell stories about a four and six-year-old, to recall their favorite toys and when they started speaking, spoke volumes. A lot of men she knew were oblivious to children until they had their own.

She swallowed the dregs of her wine. She wondered if it stained her lips purple.

Marcus would be a good dad, and he wanted kids. He'd been up front with her. He wanted the house and the kids and the dog. He liked dogs. If Marcus was a dog he'd be a chocolate lab, for sure.

Abbott would be a Rottweiler. Fischer some kind of high-maintenance breed, a gun dog that required constant exercise and stimulation. Or a border collie. Cho would probably be a pit bull. Scary on the outside—a big mushy puddle of love on the inside.

That thought made her giggle.

Marcus looked at her quizzically.

"Sorry," she said, covering her mouth with her hand. "I was thinking about Cho. How he's not so tough, you know?"

"He scares me," Marcus admitted with a smile.

She would be a terrier, Lisbon decided. Little and fierce and loyal. And Jane would be a mutt for sure. The kind you find at a shelter, of dubious origins, who is somehow so endearing you love it senseless even when it pees in your favorite shoes.

Her shoes were hurting her. How did women wear these things? She bent down to adjust a strap that was cutting into her skin.

Jane. She felt a little sick then, and not just from the booze. He'd looked so sad when she'd gone out with Marcus, so alone. Normally they spent downtime together, watching movies, having late dinners at greasy spoons. It was a comfortable sort of companionship. She was married to her job. He was married to his grief. They embraced their loneliness together and it kept her from becoming a cat-lady, probably.

"Do you want a dog?" she asked Marcus, out of the blue. "Or a cat?"

He seemed amused by her sudden change of topic. "Dog," he said. "Labrador retriever. For sure."

"Hmm."

She pondered. "You could name it Bullet or Copper or something."

"Nah," he replied. "I'd name it something like Daisy or Honey so I didn't have to think about work all the time."

Jane would probably name a dog Frank. Probably.

If she and Marcus got a dog, a puppy, Jane would love it. He loved babies. Baby animals. Baby people. Probably because they didn't lie, did hide things. He could give his brain a rest around the guileless.

Of course, he might not come see the puppy because he was pissed she was dating Marcus. Well, not pissed, uncomfortable. He knew she was serious, that Marcus was a really nice guy, but he was giving her space. Because it would be weird to date Marcus, and after having sex, go over by Jane to watch TMC until three a.m. It would make Marcus uncomfortable that she was that close with another man.

If she stayed with Marcus Jane would be sad and alone, and it made her sad. Because he deserved not to be alone. It would take a saint to put up with him though.

The waiter arrived, bearing chocolate mousse and earl grey tea. She tasted the mousse first. It was heaven.

She made appreciative noises. Then she sipped the tea. It was _awful._

She nearly gagged.

"You okay?" Marcus asked, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Wrong pipe," she choked. What the hell was in this? It tasted like rotten lawn clippings, like when Tommy would pin her face down in the leaf pile outside their house in fall, and she'd throw him off and pinch him until he screamed.

Why would Jane punish himself like this? She wondered. There was coffee, for God's sake. God made coffee so people would be happy and not kill each other in the morning. The devil made Earl Grey tea, for sure.

She swallowed enough so that it wasn't apparent she was disgusted and the finished her mousse.

Marcus paid the bill and then walked her to the door, his hand on her lower back. He expected sex, obviously. They'd already been to bed together once.

It had been good. He was a considerate lover. Strangely she was drunk then too, although not this drunk. Buzzed. She had known what was coming and she felt the need for liquid courage, which was odd.

She was no stranger to casual sex. She knew the routine. His place. The compliments as he undressed her. Stroking him for the first time and making appreciative sounds in her throat so he'd feel good about himself. No oral sex—not yet. The reaching for the condom, checking her expression to make sure didn't want more foreplay. The first moments of penetration, that sweet ache.

She'd normally faked her orgasms the first time. She was never comfortable enough with new lovers to quite get there. She hadn't needed to with Marcus. She'd had a little one, and almost as if given permission, he'd come immediately after. He'd spooned her, telling her she was beautiful, sexy. He held her even when he slept. It was all perfectly choreographed, orchestrated.

The sex held promise. It said they were compatible. But that evening, as she thought about the expected outcome of her date, she kept drinking more. Kept reaching for that glass of bitter wine.

The air was cool outside, and Marcus reached for his valet ticket. "Do you want to come over," he said low, against her ear.

"I'm…" Her mind spun, brain fuzzy. "I'm actually a little drunk. I'm sorry. It's embarrassing."

He smiled. If he was irritated he didn't show it. "It's okay. I'll drive you home."

"It's out of your way," she said. "I'll catch a cab."

It really was out of his way.

He looked concerned. "I don't mind seeing you home. I'd like to make sure you get there okay."

She gave him an amused, dry look. "I'm a federal agent. I'll be fine."

He clearly wanted to push, and clearly was conflicted about doing so. Good. She kissed his lips and grabbed the first cab to pull up. "I'll see you at work tomorrow," she said.

She left him standing awkwardly at the curb, feeling like a heel. She gave the driver her address and tried not to think.

She tried not to think that the entire time she was with Marcus, under him, sweating, biting her lip, she was trying not to moan. She was trying not come. She was trying so goddamned hard not to think of Patrick Jane sitting on his couch, blanketed in loneliness.

It wasn't fair. She deserved a personal life, a serious relationship. And if it meant they spent less time together? He couldn't expect to be a nun, could he? To spend her live sitting by him companionably, platonic? He'd never cared before, but she'd never been serious about anyone before.

The shift in their relationship had happened so fast she lost her footing.

He didn't want to be lonely and neither did she and that was the problem. Jane wanted a friend and she needed a lover, a partner. She couldn't do one-night stands and emotionless affairs forever. She was getting older. She wanted to settle down.

Jane expected her to drop everything, follow him around the country, and be his Girl Friday. It wasn't fair.

Unexpectedly she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. It would be so easy if he wanted more. She'd wondered about that once. She wondered if his flirting would ever progress to more. She'd had a little crush on him at first, before their friendship had really been cemented. Then the crush had progressed to love. She did love Jane, very much. She would always love him and think about him and wish him well. He would always make her a little happier, a little lighter. But she need _more._

Jane didn't want her like that though and never would. It was apparent after twelve years of nothing. Every step he might have taken in that direction was followed abruptly by him backpedaling, not wanting to confuse her, to give her the wrong idea.

Even now he was being so good about Marcus. He wasn't being a dick. He was happy for her, wistful even. His compliment had melted her bones.

"Beautiful."

From him, the word meant so much more.

The hell of it was, even now, as she was wallowing in the drunken misery Jane was causing her, she wanted Jane. He'd be the one the cheer her up, to be ridiculous and caustic and affectionate in a curmudgeonly way. He'd tell her not to cry over some asshole who would never love her right.

That asshole was him.

"Shit," she said, sniffling.

The cabbie started.

"I need to go somewhere else," she said. "I'm sorry." And she gave him the address to the FBI.

Jane's airstream was alone in the parking lot. There were a few cars parked near the building, but out in the back forty it sat alone, gleaming under the sodium light. She paid the cab driver and tipped him extra for the inconvenience.

Then she stumbled into the airstream, her heels cutting her feet, feeling swollen and weepy and confused.

He was sleeping, still dressed in his suit, and he sat up immediately when she came in.

"Lisbon, you okay?" He asked, his voice rough with sleep.

She leaned against the door and tried not to cry, biting her lip hard.

"What happened?" he asked. His eyes focused on her, blinking back sleep.

"I think I'm drunk," she said dumbly. _I think I'm drunk and I need to be that way to have sex with my amazing boyfriend and it's all your fault. Because I want you like I want him and I can't have it._

"Okay," he said. He started to get up. "Do you need anything?"

She held out her hand, stopping him. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. Because then they couldn't be friends anymore.

"Okay," he replied, cautiously, like she might be a crazy person.

Before she could really think about it, she kicked off her heels and dropped her bag and crawled onto the bed by him. She wanted him then so badly. Not sexually. She wanted his touch and to lean against him and to know it was okay for a little bit. He made things okay, always. He did stupid, crazy things, but he always took care of her. He manipulated the world so she would be a little happier.

Except when he was hurting her. Then he looked sorry, but not sorry enough to do anything.

It was such a mess. Such a goddamned mess, and she couldn't think anymore.

She curled up against him, her cheek on his shoulder. He smelled good, like Irish Spring and whatever his dry cleaner used. He smelled like Jane, warm and safe and not-at-all dependable.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said again, and her throat hurt from not crying.

He was still for a moment before pulling her closer, tucking her against him. He was deliciously warm, and she curled into it. He wouldn't' judge her for this, wouldn't embarrass her. Not Jane. He probably wouldn't even ask.

_I'm so in love with you it hurts_, she thought.

When he wrapped his arm around her she pretended that it was more than a friendly gesture, that he was holding her tight because he needed to feel her body against his. When he tucked her hair behind her ear she pretended he did it out of the same love he felt for Angela, the love that binds a man and woman together always. The tenderness that lovers share.

_Kiss me? Just this one time, just so I know what it feels like? I'll never ask again._

Her words were stuck on her tongue, tasting of Malbec and bitter chocolate and bergamot.

She was a maudlin drunk, she thought. She put her hand on his chest, feeling him grow tense under her touch. Too close for him. Too much. He didn't like this, it made him think of Angela.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He relaxed a little. "It's okay, Lisbon. Just go to sleep."

So she did.


	3. Chanakara Blue Ginger

_**Chanakara Blue Ginger**_

Jane woke sometime just before dawn, when the light coming in between the blinds was milky pale. He felt heavy, almost drugged, as he pulled himself out of a deep slumber. He hadn't slept that deeply in years, even if it was just for just a few hours.

He knew she was there instantly—even if he was likely to forget, he could smell Teresa's shampoo and feel the comfortable weight of her curled into his body. Her head rested on his shoulder, her small hand pressed against his chest. She was drooling a little bit, but he didn't care.

Holding her felt good. Forbidden. Narcotic. He hadn't cuddled anyone in twelve years, and he'd forgotten the pleasure of it, the reassuring weight and warmth.

Gently he stroked the skin of her bare arm with his fingertips, barely touching her. He wanted to stay awake and savor this, commit every moment to memory.

He should get up, he knew. He planned to wake up before her, leave her some aspirin and a warm 7-Up. He'd go find some breakfast and take a long walk so she wouldn't be embarrassed when she woke up, so she wouldn't have to face awkward conversation.

But he couldn't move, not yet. He just needed a few more moments of this. He might never get to hold her again, and he needed to savor every moment of it. Just because she'd come running to him in the middle of the night didn't necessarily mean her relationship with Pike was over, and for her sake, he hoped it wasn't.

She sighed and shifted further up his body so her face was tucked into his neck. He closed his eyes and pretended for a moment that this wouldn't end, pretended like the comfort wasn't laced with bittersweet pain.

He squeezed her hand, felt her relax against him. _This_ didn't belong to him.

XXX

Her head was throbbing, literally. Teresa licked her dry lips and tried to think of where she was, why she hurt. It smelled like Jane. She was hot. Her stomach was upset.

Gradually the events of the previous night came back to her with surprising clarity. Her dinner with Marcus. The cab ride home. Changing her mind and going to Jane's trailer. Crawling into bed with Jane.

Nausea rolled through her stomach at the thought. _She'd crawled into bed with Jane._

She opened her eyes; they felt sticky and were unfocused. She saw blond curls.

Suddenly being hot made sense. At some point in the night Jane had wrapped his entire body around her, and his face was pressed against her chest. His arm encircled her waist. His leg was thrown over hers.

He'd lost the suit jacket, and she reached down and touched the soft cotton of his shirt. She had never seen him this vulnerable—or this affectionate for that matter. She wasn't sure what to do. It was endearing and mortifying all at once. Part of her wanted to hold him a little bit longer, let him feel at peace. Another part of her thought she might die without a drink of water and some Tylenol.

She didn't want to wake him up, but she was also pretty sure he would be embarrassed to find out he was sleeping with his face in her breasts. Plus Marcus wouldn't be happy if he knew. Which he never would. Ever.

Also, she realized, she was probably going to throw up.

She patted his shoulder. "Jane," she said. "_Jane._"

He mumbled something in his sleep. She knew the moment he woke up because his body went tense and he rolled away from her. She pushed herself up and scurried to the small bathroom, closing the door behind her. There was barely enough room to kneel in front of the toilet.

She heaved up the contents of her stomach in violent spasms. By the time she was done her throat burned from bile and her nose was running. She flushed the toilet then leaned against the commode miserably.

After a few moments she heard Jane's voice. "You alive in there?"

"Barely," she croaked. She hadn't been this hung over since she was in college.

She pulled herself up to the sink. Her hair was hanging in limp waves and her face was pale, gray shadows under her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face, wiping away the remnants of her makeup, and washed her mouth out before coming out of the bathroom.

Jane was seated at the table, the bed already folded away. He pushed a terra-cotta colored mug toward her. "For you."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Ginger tea. It'll settle your stomach," he said.

She sat down across from him and sniffed the tea. She made a face, her lip curling.

He gave her a look. "Trust me. It'll make you feel better. It helped…" He stopped short.

She paused, the mug lifted half way to her lips. "What?"

"I was going to say that it helped Angela when she was morning sick," he said.

He seemed uncomfortable. He was always that way when discussing his late wife. He held those memories so private. She sipped the tea. It didn't taste particularly good, but she managed a few mouthfuls.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said quietly.

"You don't have apologize."

His voice was soft, understanding. He looked out the window, saving her from the scrutiny of his gaze.

She took another drink. It really did seem to be helping, although her headache was getting worse. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten," Jane replied.

"Shit!" she said, setting the mug down with enough force that tea sloshed over the sides. "I'm late!" The sudden movement sent a bolt of pain through her skull and she winced, her stomach lurching. It was Friday. She was expected in the office. Marcus would wonder what happened to her.

"Relax," Jane said, turning to look at her. "I sent Fischer a text at five this morning from your phone. You told her you had the flu and wouldn't be in."

She sat there, her mouth a little agape. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"I also sent a text to Marcus saying you were home safely and that you'd call him today," Jane replied. "I hope I wasn't presuming too much."

He was. It made her mouth dry. "No, that's…good. But what about you? Why aren't you at the office?"

"Because you're not there," he said simply.

She just looked at him, raising one eyebrow.

"I never go in when you're sick," he explained.

"I'm never sick," she pointed out.

"Four times," he said, pushing the mug back toward her. "In the ten years we worked together."

He'd been counting, but then again of course he had. She always went in, unless she was on death's door. She remembered one occasion when she'd miserable with an upper respiratory infection. She'd had a barking cough and the skin around her nose had been chapped bright red from running. She'd sequestered herself in her office, trying to get through the day.

Jane had appeared in the giant suit that the bomb squad team members wore when they were diffusing a bomb, face shield and everything. He'd carefully placed two Dayquil on her desk along with a bottle of orange juice, then backed out of the room. She could hear the team sniggering behind him. He thought he was so funny.

"Why didn't you come in when I was sick?" she asked.

He shrugged. "What was the point?"

She almost said something about it being his job, but realized how ridiculous that was.

"About last night," she said.

He interrupted. "You don't have to tell me."

"I don't… I don't want you thinking Marcus is a bad guy. He isn't." She hid her mouth behind the mug for a moment, planning her next words. "He didn't do anything to upset me."

She glanced up at Jane. He was looking at her intently, his gaze a piercing green. It was like being under interrogation, looking at those eyes.

She let her gaze slide away. "I think I just… It's a lot, really fast."

He made a non-committal sound, and placed his hand on the table.

"He's a really great guy," she said quietly. "I think it's serious. It just feels…fast."

She looked up and he was still staring at her, serious as death. "Well, you're both adults. You're at the stage of life where you know what you want," he said. "An elaborate courtship might be unnecessary." His voice was strangely empty, devoid of inflection. Sterile.

"Anyway," she said, setting the mug down, "I obviously had too much to drink and wasn't thinking very clearly." Her tone had changed, no longer questioning. She was confident now, making an announcement. I drank too much. I was foolish. I'm sorry.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just drummed his fingers on the table. "You can come here anytime you know."

"I know," she said softly. "Thanks for taking care of me last night. I'm sorry I put you out."

He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't put me out Lisbon."

"I showed up at your door in the middle of the night, drunk as a skunk," she said.

"I'm not going to complain when a beautiful woman shows up and climbs into bed with me," he replied, charming as the devil.

She rolled her eyes.

Inside her guts were churning, praying he hadn't figured out why she really had shown up. Did he know how she felt? That she pined like a teenage girl? She'd be humiliated. Maybe that's why he felt distant. Maybe it was just that he felt awkward, waking up pressed against her.

"I should get going," she said. "I need to go home and shower and change."

"How are you going to do that?" he asked.

She looked at him.

"You're parked in the FBI lot. Are you going to do the walk of shame to your car in the middle of a work day? Abbott would be scandalized."

She squeezed her eyes closed, feeling like an idiot.

"You could get my car," she said. "Bring it over here and I'll sneak out."

"Guard will see you," he replied. "Best to wait until everyone goes home."

"I can't stay here all day, Jane," she snapped. Her head hurt. Her stomach hurt. She wanted a hot shower and some time to think.

"Well you don't have many other options," he said. "I could call Marcus to pick you up."

She glared at him. Asshole.

More lightly he said, "Shower here. Borrow some clothes. Go back to sleep. The day will over soon enough and everyone leaves early on Friday. Don't you ever take a day to be lazy?"

"No," she said.

She stewed for a moment, but knew her choices were limited. She asked, "Do you have some aspirin? And some clothes I can borrow?"

The thought of a shower was heavenly.

Jane seem perplexed for a moment, considering. "The…uh, thing is, I haven't exactly done a lot of shopping since I got back."

"What do you mean?" she asked, irritably.

He shrugged, looking down at his wrinkled shirt. "What you see is what you get."

She raised an eyebrow. "You _only_ own suits?"

"Well…" His voice trailed off. "Also a sarong."

She stared.

"Long story. You can borrow a shirt."

"What do you wear to bed?" she asked without thinking. "Or when you're just lounging around?"

He raised an eyebrow and she felt a flush creep up her neck. Right. Yikes. She was really glad he'd fallen asleep fully clothed the night before.

Of course, had he been naked or in his unmentionables, the night might have taken an entirely different turn. God, she might have reached for him, snaking a hand around him in the dark. She might have purred something to him, called him 'baby,' took advantage of him. Even cool, collected Jane would have freaked out at that. He probably would have turned her out on her ear. Or called Cho for backup.

She closed her eyes again and took a breath. Jane stood, opening a cabinet and pulling down a bottle of aspirin. He shook out two of the little white pills and she swallowed them with her now-cold tea. He took a towel out of a drawer and handed it to her.

She said nothing as she walked past him and locked herself in the small bathroom. She set the towel on the sink and then shimmied out of her dress, letting her thong and bra land on the floor. She turned on the water as hot she could stand it and stood under the spray, letting it pound the tension out of her neck and shoulders.

She was stuck with Jane. For a day. After she'd crawled into his bed, miserable and half in love with two men. She couldn't think of a worse scenario. It was the stuff nightmares were made of.

She did yoga breathing, forced her shoulders to relax. She had to admit to herself that Jane was a fantasy, a mythical creature, not the very real flesh-and-blood guy you married. Of course, that would have been easier had he not been wrapped around her this morning, holding onto her like his life depended on it.

That moment made him feel bared to her. She knew now that even Patrick Jane needed a cuddle, craved warmth. It made him more human. It was a crack she could use to get in.

She used his soap and it felt strangely intimate. When she was toweling off he knocked on the door and said, "I hung a shirt on the knob."

"Thanks," she said loudly. She wiped the fog off the mirror and stared at herself. What the hell was she going to do now?

XXX

What the hell was he going to do now? The smart thing would be to drive her home, but if he left the FBI parking lot someone would likely alert Abbott and Fischer to the fact that he was playing hooky. He could always claim he was going to the doctor, he supposed.

But that meant taking Teresa home, and he liked the idea of holding her hostage for—he checked his watch—five more hours.

She'd come to him last night, to _him_ , not to Pike, and slept in _his_ arms. There had to be a reason for that beyond the fact they were very good friends and she trusted him. They'd been good friends for a decade and she'd never crawled into to bed with him for a cuddle.

He then thought about Teresa crawling into bed with him—back in the CBI attic, at the ratty hotels he used to live in, and he immediately went hard. He counted to twenty. In Greek.

He heard her rattling around in the bathroom. A naked, pale arm snaked out of the door and snatched the shirt.

He didn't have an extra toothbrush. He almost told her she could use his, but she'd think that was strange. She'd wonder at why he was comfortable sharing saliva with her.

Because he loved her, obviously.

Shit.

He heard her groan, and then wretch again.

Something was amiss. She was clearly unhappy—so unhappy she had gotten profoundly drunk.

He had to know why. He had to know if there was even the slightest possibility he still had a chance. He touched the cold metal of the ring on his finger. And then he had to figure out what to do about it.


	4. Wuyi Oolong, First Flush

_**Wuyi Oolong, First Flush**_

When Teresa emerged from the bathroom she looked ragged and drawn, her face pale, her eyes puffy. She's obviously thrown up the little bit of ginger tea she'd managed to drink.

He should have been paying attention to how sick she looked, but he was struck dumb by the sight of her in his shirt. It shouldn't have been that sexy. She was petite; the shirt hit her mid-thigh, and she'd buttoned it up high. He'd seen her in more revealing apparel, like the dress she'd worn to that horrible ball the brass had made the CBI attend. But somehow Teresa in his shirt was the sexiest thing he could imagine. A slightly rumpled Teresa Lisbon wearing one of his slightly rumpled shirts. It was intimate, implied she'd put it on after making love. It made his pulse kick in his throat.

He could see the pale outline of black lace where her bra strained against the shirt. He imagined her standing there, debating whether to put it back on. The bra was dark enough to be obvious, but then not wearing one would have been obvious too.

He thought about her nipples pressing against the fabric of his shirt. He wondered what sort of panties she was wearing. Obviously black lace to match the bra. Bikini? Boy-shorts? The shirt billowed too loosely around her hips to give him a hint.

He realized he was sweating a little.

The pale floral pattern accentuated the paleness of her skin and the dark curls of her hair. She caught his gaze and tugged the collar self-consciously.

"Tea didn't help?" he asked, pleased that he was seated at the table and hiding his now obvious erection.

"I don't think much is going to help except time," she said miserably. She laid back down on the bed, her legs dangling off the edge. The shirt rode up her thighs indecently.

He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose.

When he was suitably composed he asked, "The aspirin working?"

"A little," she said.

"You're dehydrated." He got up and took a bottle of water from the mini fridge. He handed it to her, then rifled through his cabinets until he found a bag of pretzels.

"I can't eat, Jane," she said, a hint of a whine in her tone.

"Suck the salt off them," he advised. "You need the electrolytes. Sorry I don't have Gatorade or anything."

Pike probably had Gatorade, he reflected. Probably drank it after punishing himself with some ridiculous workout.

He poured the pretzels into a blue ceramic bowl and handed it to her. She took it and scooted back on the bed until she was resting comfortably against a mound of pillows. She opened the water and sipped it slowly.

He went to another cabinet and removed a down comforter he had sealed in a vacuum bag. He'd bought it from a consignment shop and washed it in a large washer-extractor at the Laundromat. He saved it for nights when it was cold, but not cold enough to justify turning on the heat.

Kneeling on the bed he wrapped the fluffy white comforter around her, tucking it in beneath her hips.

"Thanks," she said, biting a pretzel stick and sucking it.

He nearly groaned. If he wasn't an atheist he would think God was punishing him for holding her hostage for the day.

He decided he needed tea. Something fortifying. Something special. He pulled down a foil bag of his favorite Wuyi Oolong. It was golden and tippy, and it had mellow, caramel-y taste to it. He filled the kettle and turned on the burner beneath it.

"Do you have a TV?" Teresa asked.

He took the remote off a shelf and handed it to her, then pointed to the TV screen. It was small, built into the wall of Airstream. "I don't get many channels," he said. He had satellite, but it was cheap and unreliable. He could have paid for premium service, but television didn't interest him much.

She flipped through a few channels, stopping at a Rangers game.

The tea kettle whistled and he poured the long, gold-tipped leaves into the infuser of a ceramic tea pot, adding the boiling water after. He found he couldn't dilute this particular blend with milk without ruining the flavor, so he let it steep, the sound of baseball in the background, until it was an auburn brown, then he poured it into a china cup he'd also found at the second-hand store.

"Mind company?" he asked.

Mouth full of pretzel and eyes on the TV, Teresa shook her head, moving over to the left. The bed wasn't particularly large, big enough for two adults, but not by much. Careful of his tea, he slid into bed beside her, resting his back against the pillows.

His thigh pressed against where hers was under the comforter. She didn't move away.

He sipped his tea, barely tasting it. It burned his tongue but he realized too late.

She didn't move her gaze from the television until her phone chirped. She reached for it, looked irritated, typed a few words, then set it down.

"Abbott?" Jane guessed.

"He asked if I expect to be in on Monday, and if can ensure you'll be there as well," she said. "They're going to think it's suspicious that we're both out on the same day, Jane."

He shrugged. "Grist for the rumor mill. Half the office already thinks we're sleeping together."

She turned to look at him. "They do _not._"

"Well, they did," he amended. "Until you started dating Marcus."

She looked back at the television screen, thinking. "Fischer asked me if I slept with you, straight out. I think she assumed that's why you behaved for me." Her cheeks flushed a little.

"Interesting." He sipped his tea. "I'm not sure why Fischer assumes I'd come to heel just because we were having sex."

_We were having sex._ She went a little pinker at the words.

"Maybe she thought I wouldn't put out if you didn't listen to me," she replied tartly. "Regardless, it says a lot her opinion of my professionalism."

"You're friends now," he observed.

"She's relaxed some," Teresa replied. "I think she was worried I'd usurp her on the team somehow. Like there was only room for one woman. Besides, she's happy I'm around to deal with you."

Her choice of words was unintentional, he knew, but it bothered him. Deal with him. Like he was a burden. A chore. He liked working with Teresa, preferred it to any other member of the unit. They made a good team. He wondered if he was really that exhausting.

Once she'd managed to swallow a few pretzels, she pushed the bowl away and slid further down the bed, tucking the comforter beneath her chin.

She sounded tired, resigned, when she asked. "You know that expression fireman beat and policemen cheat?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder if there's truth to that," she said.

His antennae went up and for a moment he wondered if Marcus had cheated on her or made an overture at another woman. He dismissed it immediately. Marcus wasn't the type, and if he had, Teresa would have dumped him immediately.

"Why?" he asked.

"I was thinking about my father," she said. "I wonder if all the awful stuff we see, the dead bodies, the grieving parents, the victims of rape and abuse…I wonder if it's just too much to handle. If cops can't have a normal relationship because we're poisoned by it." She took a sip of her water, capped it and set it down on the quilt beside her. "I mean, my dad was the worst after a bad fire. If he had to pull bodies out he came home and…"

"Drank and got violent," Jane said. He was surprised she was talking about this. It wasn't a subject she liked to broach, although it had come up periodically over the years.

"My father was an alcoholic and a pathological liar," Jane replied, "and he never did anything as noble as save someone from a fire. Some people are hard-wired to be dysfunctional."

"And some people get that way from experience," she muttered.

"Chasing monsters changes you," he said.

He was murderer himself. He'd killed in cold blood and had no regrets. And she was cuddled up next to him, entirely unconcerned. Years of seeing all the ugliness the world had to offer changed their perspectives.

It was why she was nicknamed Saint Teresa. It had partly to due with her looks—angelic, beautiful, innocent. But it was because even with all the corruption and cruelty inherent to their job, she never lost sight of her ideals. She saved people without comprising her beliefs.

He slid his free hand under the quilt and squeezed hers.

Was that what had driven her to him last night? He was willing to bet good money that whenever Teresa got serious with a man she thought of her father, thought about how quickly he had to turned to violence after her mother's death. It made her feel like she couldn't trust anyone.

He wished there was a way he could prove to her that she was wrong, but they were all scarred by the experiences of their childhoods. That's why he wanted the Airstream, even if he couldn't really go anywhere in it, not freely anyway. If he'd learned one thing from his father, it was that you had to be ready to hit the bricks. Stay in one place too long and people found out you were a fraud and they came gunning for you.

Teresa knew he was a fraud and a liar and a cheat, and she stuck with him anyway.

He squeezed her hand again. It was limp. He looked over and saw that she'd fallen asleep, her mouth open a little, lips finally pink instead of white.

He brushed a lock of hair out of her face, leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Beside her, her cellphone chirped. He picked up and read the text from Marcus. _Are you feeling better? Do you need anything?_

Jane texted back _Just resting._

He shouldn't be answering, but he didn't want Marcus to go to Teresa's house and find it empty. He also didn't want her waking up; she needed rest.

It would be so easy not to answer, to let Marcus search her out, find her missing, and draw the wrong conclusions. Jane could plant some clue to suggest Teresa had spent the night with him, in his arms, and that would be it.

Marcus was a good man, but Jane knew he wouldn't understand. Hell, _he_ didn't understand. Somehow Teresa could crawl into his bed, drunk as a skunk, and remain utterly faithful to her boyfriend, physically and emotionally. Because she was a saint.

_I feel terrible for you._ Marcus replied. _I owe you ice cream when you're better. Name your poison._

Jane texted a smiley face.

If he was her boyfriend, he would just show up with the ice cream. He'd wait for a day when she wasn't expecting it, when a little surprise, a little bit of sugar and love would be enough to brighten her spirits immensely. He'd make sure there were cherries and whipped cream because she loved those.

But he wasn't her boyfriend. Marcus was. And the truth was, Marcus was good to her. If Jane had to create the perfect boyfriend for Teresa Lisbon, it would look a lot like Marcus. He was honest, dependable, kind. He was as opposite from her father as it was possible to get. A man like Marcus could show Teresa that real love existed, that good people existed and could be trusted.

Jane, at best, was a flawed hero. He was a murderer and a conman. No matter how much he loved her, he'd never be good enough for Saint Teresa. And he'd continue to lie and cheat and steal. It was in his nature, and he was too old to change his spots. If she was his, she'd be tolerating his behavior, forgiving it.

She deserved better than an eccentric bachelor in a beat up camper.

He made up his mind. He would let her go. He would let Marcus woo her, and he'd smile the whole time like the best friend who was so happy for her. He'd be grateful for the twelve years of friendship she'd given him, for the times she'd kicked his ass and picked him up out of the dirt. No one but Saint Teresa could have loved him better. That was why he'd be unselfish and let her be happy. He owed her that much.


	5. Green Tea with Thai Flavors

_**Green Tea with Thai Flavors (Lemongrass, Coconut and Ginger)**_

Teresa slept most of the day, and Jane was content to let her. He left the television on, the drone of baseball announcing lulling him into a sort of half-sleep himself. He stayed propped up against the pillows, watching her, holding her hand, until the FBI offices had cleared out for the weekend.

He retrieved her car for her, and she changed back into her dress, now hopelessly wrinkled, and made her way home.

He expected her to spend the entire weekend with Pike, so he was surprised on Sunday when she texted him, asking him if he wanted to meet her for lunch at a Thai place she liked.

She showed up wearing tight jeans, a Bears tee-shirt, and a leather jacket, looking like the sexiest thing he'd ever seen. He could tell by the tension in her face—little lines around her eyes and mouth—that she wanted to talk about something. Probably about whatever had sent her to his trailer in the first place.

They ordered. She chose some sort of fusion curry that she loved. It was so spicy his eyes watered from the scent every time she ate it. He went with lemongrass soup, drunken noodles and tea. When their drinks were delivered she sipped her diet coke, eyeing his green tea.

"I had earl grey the other night," she said conversationally. "It was horrible. It tasted like dead leaves."

He raised an eyebrow, blowing steam off the white ceramic cup. "Well, technically it is dead leaves."

"Yeah, but not in a good way," she replied. "It was…bitter. Earthy? I guess?"

Before he took a sip he slid his cup across the table to her. "You made a bad cup or the restaurant did. Over-steeped it. Try this."

She looked down at the green tea skeptically. "It looks like pee, Jane."

He gave her a withering look.

She smirked and sipped the tea, pausing to think before taking another sip. "It's not as good as a Diet Coke, but it's good," she acknowledged. "I like the coconut. Reminds me of the beach."

He smiled and took the cup back from her. "Coconut reminds you of the beach?"

"Well, suntan lotion that smells like coconut, I guess. When I was little we would go to Florida for a week every year and stay on the beach. After my mom died I took my brothers to the beach along Lake Michigan. It was always too cold for me, but they went swimming."

He wrapped his hand around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his palm. "I didn't see the beach much as a kid. We traveled in the Midwest. Lots of cornfields and flat land. When Angela and I left, we finally settled in Malibu because it was on the Pacific Ocean. It was like we'd run as far as we could, and we finally decided to put our roots down when we ran out of land."

She looked unaccountably sad for a moment, like she had known Angela and loved her. He supposed in a way she did, through him.

She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, squeezing it.

He blinked. He didn't like to talk about Angela and Charlotte. It was easier to talk about Red John or their deaths, strangely enough. Discussing them as they were when they were alive still hurt too much. He had so many precious memories of them tucked away in his mind, and he relived them when he needed to. But speaking about them out loud was like opening a wound.

When he had been newly grieving, at the beginning, he lived in a half-fantasy life. He would remember his time with them down the minute details, reliving mundane days. Coming home and helping Angela make pasta while Charlotte played with her toys. He could smell the garlic and oregano and the wax of Charlotte's crayons. He remembered the softness of Angela's sweater under his palm, the sound of her voice as she told him about something she read. It was a blessing and a curse, to be able to recall things in that level of detail.

He kept those waking dreams to himself, held them precious. If he spoke them out loud he felt like he was giving them away somehow, losing a little piece of them. It was all those little details that kept them alive for him. He was so afraid of forgetting. Angela hated ginger with a passion and a small birthmark on the top of her right hand. Charlotte's favorite toy was a doll she'd inexplicably named Soup, who had to go everywhere with them. He clutched those memories desperately, manically.

"You always reminded me a little of Angela," he said suddenly, surprising himself. "I think it's the bossiness. And the freckles."

She smiled. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he was afraid to.

Their food came and they pulled their hands apart. He could smell the peppers in Lisbon's dish.

"Didn't you already wear out your stomach lining with coffee?" he asked.

"I have guts of steel," she bragged, taking a bite.

"Except for the other morning, sure."

She winced a little when he brought up her hangover. "I meant to talk to you about that."

Uh-oh. They were having A Talk. He knew that tone.

He wondered if this was the talk where she divulged what happened in the first place to bring her to him, or if it was the talk where she asked him to keep his distance while she dated Pike.

"I know it's a sensitive subject," she said. "But have you thought about dating again?"

Well, that was unexpected. He took a sip of his soup, buying time. "Can I ask what brought this up?" he asked, tone carefully neutral. "Does Pike have a friend he wants to set me up with?"

A double date with Teresa and Pike. That sounded like hell.

"No," she said quickly. "It's just that you're back in the US, Red John is out of the way. I thought maybe…it was time. And you have seemed sad, Jane."

He was sad. There was no point in hiding it. His relationship with Teresa was going to change no matter what he did. She was finally leading a normal life, balancing work and home, seeking out relationships. He was still stuck on a brown couch, afraid to go back to his place to sleep alone.

He moved his spoon around his bowl, no longer hungry. "Who would you suggest I date?" he asked. He sounded a little irritated, and he tried to check his tone.

"I don't know," she replied, exasperated. "I wasn't offering to be a matchmaker. It was just a question. Kim, maybe?"

"You haven't noticed the way she looks at Cho?" he asked dryly.

She sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up." She speared a piece of chicken with her fork and ate it, apparently immune to the spices it was coated in.

He set his spoon down. "I'm sorry, Lisbon. It's not a subject I like to discuss."

"I don't understand why," she said quietly. "I need to know, Jane… Is that part of you just completely shut off? Forever?"

Her voice sounded sad, pitying, and a little afraid. He wondered how much she worried about him.

"I'm not unhappy, Lisbon," he said.

_Liar._

"I guess, I just wondered if now…if you were ready to move on?" She couldn't make eye contact with him.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess it would depend on the person. She would have to be…exceptional."

He could have sworn her eyes were a little teary when she said, "I hope you find her, Jane."

Saint Teresa. He reached out and took her hand again.

X X X

She was having a hard time breathing and her hands felt numb. She sat locked in the stall of a very expensive Italian restaurant, having an anxiety attack. She knew what they felt like—she'd had a few over the years. Too much coffee, too much adrenaline, a particularly tough case.

She had never had a panic attack because someone said he loved her, though. Or more or less said it.

Marcus hadn't actually uttered the "L" word yet, which made his request for her to move with him even stranger.

He was right. They had a good thing going. They were both mature enough to know when a relationship was going somewhere and when it wasn't. She had assumed they had months, maybe a year, before they even had to discuss co-habitating.

She did not expect that he would ask her to move across the country with him.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees.

It was actually a really good offer, the best she'd had. She cared about him, deeply. Part of her loved Marcus. She wasn't sure she was in love with him, but that came with time, didn't it? They were compatible, enjoyed each other's company. Washington would offer her far more career opportunities than Austin would. And if it fell apart… Well, she could always come back. They weren't getting married.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her breathing was shaky, perilously close to tears.

The problem was, leaving was admitting that there was nothing between her and Jane. It was moving on completely, no pretending that one day he'd look up from his couch and say something like "You know I love you, right, Teresa?" No fantasizing that one day, out of the blue, he'd just kiss her.

She'd been telling herself that someday Jane would wake up and realize she was there, but her conversation with him over the weekend had confirmed that wasn't going to happen.

He'd seemed bitter, defensive when she'd brought up the subject of him dating again. He'd visibly pulled away from her, his face shutting down, his posture growing stiff. The subject was forbidden. Message received.

She could stay. They could continue to be friends and partners and the closest thing he had to family, but it would never go any further than that. And she wasn't willing to be an old maid, pining for a man who wouldn't love her back.

She stood up and straightened her dress, washed her hands, checked her makeup.

When she went back to the table, Marcus had ordered dessert for her, and a cup of Earl Grey tea.

She almost laughed. "I just need time to think," she said, sitting down.

"I know," he replied. "I'm sorry, Teresa. I know it's a lot to process."

That night he dropped her at her place, and she made polite apologies. She was tired. She needed to consider his offer. He was very understanding.

When he left she stood alone in her dark apartment and pulled out her phone.

She texted Jane. _Are you awake?_


	6. Golden Yunnan Black

_**Golden Yunnan Black **_

_Are you awake?_ Jane started at the blue glow from his phone. A dog-eared paperback lay on his chest.

Of course he was awake. He hadn't been sleeping much since Lisbon had started her relationship with Pike.

_I am now_, he replied. He didn't want her to think he was wandering the FBI halls at midnight, aimless and forlorn.

_Can we talk? It's important._ _Come over?_

His pulse sped up. This was either going to be very good or very bad. He didn't' know which one to hope for. He didn't want Pike to break her heart, honestly. He hated to see her in pain. Even if she was single again, would he do anything? If he made the wrong move and alienated her, it would destroy their friendship, and he held that friendship scared above everything else.

He knew he should wait until they were face to face, but he couldn't restrain his curiosity. _Everything okay?_

The pause between their messages felt endless.

_Pike got promoted. He's moving to DC. Asked me to come with him._

Three sentences, and they cut him apart, flayed him. He was in physical pain, sudden and acute.

Even when he considered the worst-case scenario, Lisbon was still there with him, was still his partner. He'd still see her five days a week, ten hours a day. He never considered that she might leave Austin or the FBI entirely.

His throat was dry. He was losing her, well and truly losing her.

He thought about Venezuela, about the total loss of contact for two years. Two years without hearing her lecture him or tease him or ask him how his day was. He couldn't go back to that. There would be the occasional phone call or email, but eventually distance would get the better of them, and she would fade away, no longer part of his life.

He had to tell her. If there was even a chance she might stay, it was worth it. It might make her angry or hurt her. She might think he was manipulating her, but he had to try, just once.

His hands were shaking when he typed, _I'm on my way._

X X X

Teresa clicked end on her phone. It was a call she dreaded, one that should have waited till morning, but she had felt the need to do it now. She had to do it cleanly.

Tomorrow she would discuss a transfer with Abbott. He wouldn't be happy. He would worry that Jane would throw a fit and threaten the integrity of the team. She would have to soothe Jane first, ensure that he would let her go graciously. Once he understood, she had no doubt he would release without a scene. He might even be happy to put a little distance between them.

She turned on one lamp in the living room, just enough light to manage by. In the kitchen she opened her cabinet and pulled down a tin of black tea she'd bought in the expectation of entertaining Jane occasionally. Then she took down the black ceramic tea pot that had cost fifty dollars, more than she should have spent on something just for him to use on the rare occasions he was at her apartment. She took out the infuser, filled the pot with tap water, and put it in the microwave to heat. Maybe she would give it to Jane when she left. She wasn't going to need it.

She heard him knocking on the door and she smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. She felt strangely calm. When she answered the door she was surprised to see that a cold rain had started to fall. Jane was damp, his hair dripping down his neck. The silver bucket was parked at the curb.

"Come in," she said, opening the door further. "I was making you some tea."

"Teresa," he said. He looked pale, a little frantic. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked at the waist. He looked like he had the first day she'd met him. A homeless vibe.

He was afraid, she realized.

"Let me get you that tea," she said, pointing toward the couch. "Sit down and warm up."

The microwave dinged and she returned to the kitchen, filled the infuser with black tea, and set it in the pot to steep. She pulled an old CBI mug from the dish drainer, got the milk out of the fridge, and took a few deep breaths. She added the milk, poured the tea, and brought him the mug.

He accepted it gratefully, looking at her with tired eyes. He looked exhausted. There were bags under his eyes, lines around the corners of his mouth that weren't usually there.

She sat down next to him.

"We need to talk," she said.

"Pike wants you to move with him," Jane said. His voice sounded ragged, like he hadn't used it in a while.

"Yes," she said, steeling up her courage.

"Do you love him?" Jane asked. He sounded raw, vulnerable.

"No," she answered. "But I think I could."

He set his tea on the coffee table and turned so that their knees were touching. "I know it's not fair," he said urgently, the floor lamp behind him painting yellow and gray shadows on his face, "but I don't want you to go. Please, Teresa."

"Jane," she said.

He squeezed her hands. "Please, Teresa," he said. She was surprised to see that his eyes were wet. "Please stay with me. I love you."

She closed her eyes, tears squeezing her throat, making it hard to breathe. "I love you too, Jane," she said easily. "You know that. Why else would I put up with your crap?"

When she opened her eyes he was looking at her, confusion apparent on his face. He seemed unable to talk for a moment, then said, "You don't understand…"

"I'm not going, Jane," she interrupted. "I called Marcus. I broke things off with him. Like I said, I don't love him, not yet. And that's not enough to move across the country for."

He let out a ragged breath.

Before he could say anything she said, "But I am leaving. I'm asking Abbott for a transfer to the Chicago office. I'll be closer to James and Paul, my nieces and nephews."

His eyes widened. "I don't understand."

She licked her lips, now dry. Her pulse raced. She had to tell him now, had to explain so he'd understand, so he'd let her go. "I can't stay here anymore, Jane, I'm sorry. Marcus made me realize that if I stay here…" She let go of his hands and rubbed her face, struggling with the words. "I'm not saying this right," she whispered.

He touched her arm, fingertips barely brushing her. "Teresa?"

"I'm in love with you," she said. Once the words were out she felt strange, light, untethered. She felt…absolved, as if she'd confessed some long hidden sin. Suddenly she couldn't stop talking. "I love you, and you know that, but I'm in love with you. I think I have been for years. And I can't keep using our friendship as a substitute for a real relationship," she said, words pouring out frantically.

He looked stunned, a little white.

"I spent two years in Washington pining for you, living off those letters. And then Marcus came along and I realized I'd never fall in love with him while you were here, not really, and even if I went with him to DC I'd always resent that he took me away from you so…" She took a breath. "So I need to go now. I need to walk away, all on my own, and start over. Because if I stay here with you I'll just be waiting for the day when you might get over Angela and…" Her voice trembled, husky from unshed tears, "…and you might see me as more than your partner."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, surprisingly hot against her skin. "I need to walk away, Jane, I'm sorry. I need to try and build a normal life, and I can't do it here waiting for you to feel something you don't."

Now was the part where he told her he understood, where he seemed frightened and a little relieved. Now was the part where he could tear her to shreds with thoughtless words or try to manipulate her into staying, into being his sidekick again.

Her stomach ached.

Jane said nothing, he just looked at her, his face raw and open. She'd expected him to be wearing his mask, or to at least be angry, instead he looked…grievous.

She brushed away a tear with the back of her hand. "Can you say something please? Even if it's just, I'll help you pack?"

He leaned forward and kissed her. Just like that. It was the softest, gentlest kiss she'd ever felt, but it was full of…want? Need? She sat stock still. He put his hands on her shoulders and they were trembling.

She pulled back. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

"Jane?" It came out in a croak.

He didn't say anything but pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face against her neck. He held her so tightly it hurt.

"Jane?" she asked again.

He pressed little kisses to her collarbone. He was shaking. His hair was damp against her cheek.

"Are you laughing or crying?" she asked.

"Both," he said, tilting his face up and kissing her again. This was not tender or sweet, but a slow burn. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she gasped, opening her mouth. It was all velvet or silk or whatever romance novel clichés she could think of. There was no hesitation in his kiss. It was sure and possessive, and his hands squeezed her waist.

Her pulse raced and her belly tightened. She felt her nipples harden inside her bra.

She pushed him back. "Jane," she said. "Talk to me, _please._"

"You misunderstood me," he said. "When I told you I loved you. I was asking you not to leave because I want to be with you. I'm so sorry it took me this long." He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "I am in love with you, Teresa," he whispered. "Let's just be clear on that."

He held up his hands then, showing her. She quirked an eyebrow in confusion, then realized they were bare, no ring.

She choked on a ragged sob. "When?" she managed to ask.

"Tonight," he said. "I realized it was time. Even if you kicked me to the curb, it was time."

She swallowed thickly. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was afraid," he answered. "And I wanted you to be happy."

She sniffed and wiped at a tear. Then she punched him as hard as she could in the shoulder.

"Ow!" He lurched backward, nearly dumping her off his lap.

"You _asshole_," she said, still sniffling. "I was dying, trying to build this relationship with Marcus, and dying inside because you were closed off and I couldn't have you!"

She punched him again.

"Ow! Okay!" He caught her wrist. "I'm sorry!" he said. "I'm sorry."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, tucked her face into his shoulder and cried, all big heaving sobs while he rocked her and held her.

When she was done, he asked, "Will you stay? Will you stay here with me?" His voice was so quiet.

"Yes," she whispered into his shoulder.

He pulled her so that he could look at her again. "I haven't done this in a really long time," he said.

"Well, I suck at relationships," she admitted.

He studied her face, a small smile creeping at the corners of his mouth. "You have panda eyes." He brushed a thumb under her eye, wiping away the mascara again.

"Kiss me again?" she asked.

He did. His hands traced her spine, spanned her waist, moving restlessly. After a few moments she pulled away and said, "I need to blow my nose. Do you want me to heat up your tea?"

"No," he said, kissing her throat, the curve of her neck.

She shivered.

Her body was on fire and her mind was numb from shock and crying. She extracted herself from his arms and went to the bathroom, blowing her nose into a Kleenex and wiping at her eyes. At least her hair looked good, she reflected.

When she walked back into the living room, Jane was standing with his hands in his pockets, an intense and predatory look on his face. Her stomach knotted, not unpleasantly. She hadn't anticipated _this._ How did they move forward? Did she invite him to spend the night? Did she even want to? It felt like so much all at once.

"So what do we do now?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "Do we…date? I guess?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I have some ideas, though."

She gave him a lopsided smile. "I was moving to Chicago and leaving you with my tail tucked in-between my legs twenty minutes ago," she said. "Give a girl a moment."

When he smiled at her it was soft and full of love. He held out his arm and she walked over to him, snuggling into his embrace.

"How about we just have another cup of tea," he said, "for right now."

"Okay," she agreed, turning her face up once more and kissing him. "I think that's a good plan."

**A/N: Do you want me to continue with this or should we leave off here? I'm eager for your thoughts!**


	7. Blood Orange

_**Blood Orange**_

_**A/N: This chapter is a little M. **_

They wandered into the kitchen, Jane's arm still around her shoulders, her arm around his waist. She poured him a fresh cup of tea and put it in the microwave to heat it.

When she turned around, he cupped his hand beneath her jaw and kissed her. When the microwave beeped she pulled away and retrieved the mug, turned to hand it to him, but he took it from her and kissed her again. It was like he couldn't stop touching her, and maybe he couldn't.

He was hard against her stomach, and she wondered if this was he always kept his distance from her, never gave her a peck on the cheek. Once he started kissing her, he seemed consumed by it. His lips trailed across her cheek to brush her ear.

"So beautiful," he whispered, and she shuddered.

His hands skated down the back of her dress, stopping just above her ass.

She started checking boxes in her mind. There were condoms in the nightstand drawer. She was wearing pretty underwear—champagne colored lace. Underwear she'd worn for her date with Marcus.

Suddenly she felt dirty, a little ashamed. She'd never dated two men back to back like this. She'd slept with Marcus, and now she about to sleep with Jane, and it felt like too much.

She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back a little. "I think we need to slow down," she said regretfully.

His eyes were dark, pupils dilated. He didn't seem angry. He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. "Okay," he said.

"It's just going really fast," she said. "Considering, I mean, you've never…"

Touched her? Made a single overture?

"I know he said," he said smiling. He reached behind her and took the mug from the counter, sipped the tea.

She really wanted to get out of her dress and into something loose-fitting and comfortable. The clock on her oven read two a.m. and she realized that time had gotten away from them. "We need to be at work in six hours," she said.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You should get some sleep."

She tugged on his lapel. "You too."

"I'm too keyed up," he admitted. He was looking at her with this adoring smile, intimate, just for her. It made her knees weak. "I'd ask to spend the night, and promise to behave myself, but I'm not sure I could."

She flushed. She was gratified by his attraction to her, it validated the unrequited feelings she'd held for so long.

"No one at work can know," she said seriously.

He shrugged. "You know they'll figure it out, Teresa. But I won't advertise it."

She ran her fingers down his lapel, not wanting to make him go, but knowing she had to. "Will you come over tomorrow night?" she asked.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he promised. He kissed her one more time, then they slowly pulled apart.

She followed him to the door, biting her lip, struggling to make sense of everything that had happened in a few hours.

He lifted the mug. "Mind if I take this with me?"

She smiled. "I know where to look if you don't give it back."

He stood at her door and she pressed a soft kiss to his lips, very nearly chaste. "Goodnight Jane."

"Do me a favor?" he asked, seriously. "Call me Patrick?"

"Patrick," she amended quietly. It felt strange. He was Jane in her mind, always would be.

"Good night, Teresa," he said, and for the first time in a long time, he looked happy.

X X X

He beat her to work the next morning and settled in on the couch. He hadn't slept the night before, and he hoped to catch up on some sleep during the day.

He felt light, like he was floating. He knew he was smiling, relaxed, _different._ He had forgotten how being in love made a person feel.

He'd promised Teresa that he wouldn't advertise their relationship, but he couldn't hide his elation either. When she walked in the door, dressed conservatively and holding an enormous cup of coffee, he couldn't help but smile.

"Good Morning, Jane," she said as she sat down.

"Morning Lisbon."

He stared at her back, at the fall of dark hair.

It occurred to him that he had license to touch her now. Well, not _now_ unless he wanted her to punch him in the kidney, but in general. He marveled at the thought that he could stoke her hair now, hold her hand, kiss her mouth, her neck, her… His mind wandered pleasantly.

They hadn't set any limits in that regard. He understood her concern about moving too fast. Teresa wasn't the type of woman to fall into bed immediately, even if they'd had twelve years to get to know each other. He wondered how far she'd let him take things tonight. He had good intentions, but he was sure that he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Mostly he just wanted to sleep with her again, tucked against her warmth. He had enough lonely nights in his life. He was ready to invite her into his bed permanently, with or without sex.

"Stop staring," she said, never turning around.

"I'm not staring," he lied.

"I can feel you staring," she argued. She was doing something on her computer that looked tedious.

"Fine," he sighed, standing up. "Then I'm going to make tea. Do you want anything?"

"Something sugary and full of carbs, if they have it," she answered.

"In a law enforcement office?" he joked. "I think that's a safe bet to make."

Normally mornings were reserved for Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong, but he suspected that caffeine would only make him jittery, despite his lack of sleep. He combed through the cupboards, past his own tea stash, to find a box of some herbal blend. Blood Orange. Caffeine free. The box had a cheery looking bear on it that he found obnoxious. He shrugged and took out a sachet, pouring hot water into his tea cup and letting it steep.

Cho came into the kitchen, filled his standard dark blue FBI mug with coffee, added one sugar packet and looked at him.

"Good morning," Jane said amicably.

"Finally told Lisbon you love her, huh?" Cho asked, lifting the mug to his lips. "Good. You two were getting annoying."

"Good to know my emotional angst was grating on your nerves," Jane replied dryly. "I assume the bureau wide memo has already been distributed?"

"Abbott doesn't want to know, Fischer pretends not to want to know, Wylie is probably planning your wedding, and I don't really care," Cho said. "Unless you hurt the Boss. Then I'll hunt you down and kill you, and bury you in a shallow grave in the desert."

He shrugged. "Seems fair."

Jane found a donut in a blue bakery box, set it on a napkin and brought it to Lisbon, placing it next to her coffee.

She made a point of not looking up. "Thanks."

He settled down on the couch and sipped his tea. It was tart. Pleasant. He picked up his phone and texted her.

_I love you._

When her phone vibrated, she sighed, obviously suspecting it was him.

She typed back. His phone buzzed a moment later.

_Marcus, I told you, not here._

He frowned.

_Not funny._

He could see the corner of her mouth twitch in a smile when she read it and replied.

_Sorry. I love you too._

He stared at the words for a while, letting his brain process them. Then he typed _Where should we go tonight?_

She sighed when her phone vibrated again, the picked it up and read the screen. _My place. _ She answered.

His pulse sped up, then a second message appeared.

_Pizza. Beer. Hockey._

He smiled. That was his Lisbon.

The day crawled by. No one interesting was murdered. There was a staff meeting he fully intended on sleeping through until Fischer stalked over and literally pulled him off the couch by his ear. He spent the meeting staring blankly through the glass walls of the conference room, wondering if Pike had come to work today or called off, nursing a broken heart. He decided he didn't really care much, to be honest.

Then Lisbon was called away to help Cho consult on a cold case and he spent the rest of the afternoon irritating Fischer or staring at the ceiling above his couch.

It was after six when Lisbon finally reappeared, a two inch thick stack of files pressed to her chest. "Sorry," she said. "Ready to go?"

He stood and waited patiently while she locked her things away and grabbed her purse. "I can drive," she offered. "So you don't have to haul the silver bucket around."

"Sure," he said. He liked that idea. It meant she had to drive him back home, which meant that if she got drowsy after a few beers she might let him sleep on her couch.

The picked up the pizza and beer and went to her apartment, where she changed into a loose-fitting hockey jersey over yoga pants.

He was putting the pizza on paper plates when she walked out of the bedroom and he could tell immediately that she hadn't bothered with a bra. For a moment his mind forgot how to work.

She was oblivious. She snatched the plate from him, saying, "Thanks," before dropping breathlessly onto the couch. She turned on a Chicago Blackhawks game and opened her beer, putting her feet up on the coffee table.

It wasn't unlike many other nights they'd spent together, and he wondered if they should be doing something special. Expensive restaurants. The theatre. Dancing. But then he sat next to her and she cuddled into his side, sighing in pleasure, and he realized she was exactly where she wanted to be.

His kissed the crown of her head and they ate their pizza quietly. When she was done she set her plate aside and rested her hand on his thigh, making his pulse twitch in his neck. Feeling brave he slipped his hand under her jersey and on the bare skin of her stomach. He felt her breathing hitch, but she said nothing.

He kept his eyes glued to the barbarity on the television. He had never watched hockey before, not an entire game, and he was a little surprised when they went to commercial break so someone could go scrape blood off the ice with a putty knife.

A commercial for some movie neither of them had an interest in seeing came on and she looked up at him, her eyes sleepy, a content smile on her face. He kissed her, parting her lips, loving the way she gasped when his tongue touched hers. His hand caressed the bare skin of her stomach, moving upward, brushing against the soft underside of breast.

He was afraid to move faster. Partly he didn't want to pressure her. Partly it had been twelve years since he'd made out with someone. Lorelei didn't count.

After a moment he pulled back. Her eyes were glazed over, her cheeks pink. "It's been a long time," he admitted self-consciously. "I need you to tell me what you want me to do."

She raised an eyebrow. "You need specifics?"

He almost blushed. Almost. "I need you to set the pace," he clarified.

She hummed in agreement, then surprised him by turning around and throwing her leg across his. She straddled his lap and looped her arms around his neck, kissing him intently. Teresa gave as good as she got, and he found that his hips were jerking upward of their own volition, pressing against the seam of her yoga pants.

She moaned encouragingly and began to unbutton his shirt with clumsy fingers. Finally she gave up and reached for the hem of her jersey. She pulled it off and tossed it aside.

For a moment his mouth went dry. He stared at her beasts, full and pale, and tipped with strawberry pink nipples. It wasn't that he hadn't seen breasts in twelve years, it was just that … Teresa Lisbon had taken her shirt off for him.

His hands slid up her sides, cupping them, running his thumbs across their peaks. "You're beautiful," he said reverently.

"Am I moving too fast?" she asked seriously, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder. "You look a little…overwhelmed."

He didn't answer her. He took her nipple into his mouth and relished the feel of the tight peak against his tongue. He'd forgotten this, how good this felt. He squeezed and massaged with his hands, stroked and sucked and rolled her with his mouth.

She moaned when he switched to the other breast, whispering, "Jane," against his hair.

He bit down gently.

"Patrick." It came out on a half laugh.

The sound of his name on her lips made him groan. She tugged on his hair and dragged his mouth to hers. He kissed her, thrusting into her mouth, his hands tight on her hips. Her nails bit into his scalp.

Finally he pulled away. "If we're going to stop, we need to stop now," he said hoarsely.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, then sighed and reached for her jersey. Her hair spilled across her breasts, dark curls, pale skin.

_Jesus._

He fought to control his breathing, to calm his pulse, to relax his body. It was a struggle, but he managed more or less.

The game was over. Neither of them knew who won. She picked up the remote, turning off the TV, her own breathing ragged. It was dark out now, and the room was bathed in pale yellow light from her floor lamp.

She scooted of his lap and reached for their empty bottles of beer, taking them into the kitchen.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?" she asked, when she returned.

"Yes," he said. He took her hand and kissed it. "Are you going to bed?"

She smiled. "I didn't sleep much last night." She bent down and kissed him. "Good night, _Patrick._"

He leaned back into the cushions, watching her ass sway as she walked away.

He kicked off his shoes and propped his legs on the couch, listening to the sounds of running water from down the hall. He heard the sound of an electric toothbrush, a toilet flush. A light from down the hallway flipped off, so that only his lonely lamp provided illumination.

He settled back and closed his eyes. After a few moments he heard her padding across the room.

She was still in the jersey, nothing else. He looked at her bare legs with appreciation.

"No funny business," she said, reaching her hand out to him.

He smiled and took it. She led him through the dark to her room. It was cool and dark and smelled like her shampoo. She climbed into bed, sliding over to make room for him. He stripped down to his underwear and pulled the sheet back. Lying on his side he pulled her to him, holding her back against his chest, his arm wrapped around her waist.

"I love you," he whispered into her hair, saying the words because he could now.

_**I love reviews like cake. Just throwing that out there.**_


	8. Irish Breakfast Black

_**Irish Breakfast Black**_

**This chapter is rated M. If you don't like that, you can skip right over it and not miss anything crucial to the plot. **

Jane woke momentarily disoriented, his brain confused by the scent of lavender and vanilla and the heat against his body. He blinked, waking up in the strange room, and then all at once his memory flooded into him.

It wasn't uncommon for him to forget that Angela and Charlotte were dead, to forget his grievous crime just before he woke up from a deep sleep. Then the memory of what he had done, what he had endured, would roll over him like a crushing weight.

This morning it was different. He was sleeping beside Teresa, in her bed, her naked thigh pressed to his. Joy bubbled inside him, disbelief at his good fortune.

He turned his head to read the glowing green numbers on her alarm clock. Six-thirty. He woke around the same time every day with or without an alarm. It was Saturday, though, and he wanted Teresa to rest as long as she needed.

She was sleeping on her stomach, her arms folded under her pillows, head facing the other direction. The room was dim—the blinds closed—but he could see her well enough. She'd spent most of the night curled up against him, her backside tucked into his lap, her hair tickling his face.

He carefully pulled the sheet off her, wanting to look at her, to study her, without her being aware of his scrutiny. She was remarkably beautiful. Granted, he was biased, but he'd always found his petite, pale-skinned partner to be one of most attractive women he knew. The fact that she was totally unaware of how stunning her dark curls and green eyes were, made her even more appealing.

The jersey had ridden up around her hips, revealing her legs and derriere to him. He should have felt guilty ogling her without her knowledge, but he didn't. He'd been quietly obsessed with her backside for years. He had deliberately positioned himself on the couch all those years so he could watch her walk back to her office, her ass swaying enticingly.

Grace had confided that when he'd been in a fugue, he'd copped a feel, cupping her ass as she strode out of a bar. He'd been embarrassed and ashamed, and also secretly irritated that he didn't remember.

Her skin was ivory pale, shadowed in the crease where the backs of her thighs and her buttocks met. He leaned over and stroked a palm down her leg, kissing the back of her thigh, the soft skin of her behind.

"Jane?" she murmured sleepily.

He gave the cheek a gentle nip.

"Patrick," she groaned. "I said no funny business."

He stroked her skin, squeezing her in his palms. Together his hands spanned her entire rear end. It was erotic, the sight of his tanned hands against the soft, white cheeks.

"Nothing funny about it," he murmured.

Then, with a sigh, he pulled the sheet back over her.

"Time is it?" she asked sleepily.

He kissed her head and she turned to look at him, her eyes slits.

"Early," he said. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to see what you have for breakfast."

"Nothing," she muttered, but rolled back over, taking the blankets with her.

He didn't bother dressing, but he did adjust his rather uncomfortable erection inside his underwear. He padded to the kitchen and found a box of Irish Breakfast tea in the cupboard. He made himself a cup, then scanned the contents of her fridge and shelves.

She wasn't kidding. He knew she lived on protein bars and frozen dinners, but he hadn't expected her fridge to be quite so depressing. There was a case of diet coke, creamer, long expired orange juice, ketchup and a box of baking soda.

This was not going to work.

He showered, closing the bedroom door so as not to wake her, and returned to his Airstream for fresh clothes and his toothbrush. He left a note on her table letting her know he planned on returning. He'd given her enough reason over the years to think he might bolt.

It was early enough that there weren't many shoppers at the market. He bought enough food for several meals and well as the staples she didn't have at home. He added a newspaper to the top of his purchases, since he was apparently one of the few people who still read them.

She was still asleep when he returned, so he set to work. He made coffee as he melted butter in her frying pan, then mixed the ingredients he needed for an omelet. In another pan he made he scrambled eggs for himself.

He made toast from the fresh white miche he'd gotten at the bakery and lathered it with butter. Then he sliced up bananas and strawberries, putting them in a small bowl.

By the time breakfast was done, he could hear her stirring.

He opened the bedroom door, carrying their meal on a tray (which he'd also had to buy).

"What's that?" she asked, blinking sleepily as he set the tray on the bed.

He opened the blinds, letting the room flood with light, before settling down beside her. "Breakfast he said."

She eyed the omelet, toast and fruit before settling on coffee first. "This is a lot of food, Jane," she teased.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he replied, picking up his plate and fork.

They ate in content silence, although she made appreciative noises when she cut into the cheese and bacon omelet.

After a while she said, "So should I expect this sort of treatment every day when you sleep over?"

"You deserve it," he said, leaning over to kiss her, his palm on her cheek.

She smiled against his lips and said, "Put the tray on the floor?"

She didn't have to tell him twice.

He kissed her again and she laid down, her arms linked around his neck. She pulled him on top of her, her mouth opening, seeking him.

"You aren't usually a morning person," he said, when she moved her lips to his throat.

"I don't usually get to sleep in and wake up to breakfast in bed," she murmured, running her hands down his arms.

She kissed him again and he wondered what her definition of taking things slow was. His body was primed, screaming at him to make love to her until neither of them could walk. His brain told him that she deserved to be seduced, slowly, luxuriously.

Besides that, it had been so long for him. He was afraid of disappointing her, of not living up to twelve years of expectation. He decided the best thing would be to pull away, to spend the day together as a couple, to work slowly toward consummation.

Her teeth nipped his lower lip, then she sucked on his tongue inside her mouth.

_Fuck it_, his brain said.

He slid one hand along her thigh, pushing the jersey up until it was bunched around her hips. Reaching beneath it, he stroked her breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly.

She let out a quick moan, hips arching, and he smiled against her mouth. One arm still braced behind her head, he kissed her neck, the skin revealed by the vee of the jersey. His hand moved from her breast to trace her ribs, her hip. He wondered if he was going too fast when he skimmed her belly and found the soft hair at the juncture of her legs.

Her breathing was tremulous, and he glanced up. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lower lip. He stroked her, opening her with gentle fingers. He was gratified to find her damp and hot, far too much for the little foreplay they'd engaged in. She wanted _him_, badly.

He watched her face as the tip of his index finger circled her clitoris, never quite touching, teasing. She was panting, her cheeks pink. Her mouth opened into a silent 'O' as he slid his fingers inside her, first one, then two, then three, stretching her. He groaned at her warmth, the way she contracted around him.

She made a keening sound and arched her hips up, rocking into the rhythm he was establishing. His thumb pressed against her clit, his fingers bending and curling inside her.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Open your eyes."

She did, and flushed even more. She knew exactly who was inside her, who was making her tremble, and loved it. She was as turned on by the fact that those were his hands as much as she was by what he was doing.

He gasped, surprised, when her hand found his fly. Her fingers fumbled with the fly, unzipping him, finding him through the opening of his boxers.

He wanted to tell her to stop, that it was too much distraction. He wanted to make her scream first, but she wrapped her warm, small hand around him and grinned. He groaned, thrusting into her palm. His head fell to the crook of her neck, sweat beading his brow.

Their movements became more frantic and less controlled, less skilled. He desperately wanted to spread her legs and push into her, but he held himself in check.

"Oh!" she said, her hips rolling as she came. "_Oh_!"

She took moment to recover, sucking in lungfuls of air, then kissed his mouth. Her hand tightened around him, moving with surprising proficiency. The air was still musky with the scent of her arousal and he had been celibate far too long. It took only moments for him to come with a shout, spilling himself into her sheets.

They both lay there breathing heavily, bodies exhausted.

His mine was happily blank with pleasure, as she rolled half onto him, kicking the soiled sheet down the bed. She nestled her head onto his shoulder, and he adjusted himself, zipping his pants again.

"_That_," she said, kissing his neck, "was worth waiting for."


	9. African Solstice

_**African Solstice**_

_**I've changed the rating of this story to M. **_

They dozed in a post-orgasmic haze, his hand resting gently on Teresa's bare stomach. When she woke and went to shower, he bundled up the sheets and put them in the laundry.

"So," he said, when she returned from the bathroom wrapped in a terry-cloth robe and toweling her hair, "what does Teresa Lisbon do on a Saturday?"

She rolled her eyes. "Like you don't know."

They'd spent time together outside of work over the years, but he assumed she meant that he'd already figured her out. He tapped his lower lip. "I'd say… you punish yourself with horrible work-outs, do the shopping and the laundry, and…drink a glass of wine while reading a romance novel."

Her cheeks went a little pink. "Have you been raiding my bookshelf?"

"I confess, I was concerned about Ben and Sophie would ever find love, especially with him struggling with his post-traumatic stress disorder," he said wryly. "Are all romance heroes Navy SEALs?"

She shrugged. "Or dukes. Pick your century."

"Regardless," he said, "I've already done the shopping and the laundry, which leaves the day wide open."

"You don't want to go for a run with me?" she asked cheekily. "We could do a short one. Three miles?"

He stared at her. "The only acceptable time to run is when someone is chasing you."

She smiled. "Do you even _own_ running shoes?"

He looked down at his gray wool socks, wiggled his toes. "I suppose I should buy some. You're probably going to insist on torturing me, aren't you?"

"Well," she admitted, "you are old and creaky, and I'd hate for you to have a heart attack on me and leave me alone for decades, so we should probably get you into a fitness regime."

His mouth went a little dry. She was suggesting that they were staying together-as in forever. He was already looking at their fledging relationship on a permanent basis, but he had no idea if she was doing so too. He had twelve years of Teresa Lisbon in his life. It wasn't enough.

To his surprise, he felt his eyes prick a little. Quickly he said, "How about we compromise with a walk?"

"Sure," she said.

She dressed in yoga pants and a tee shirt and brushed out her hair, pulling it back. She didn't bother with makeup. He certainly didn't think she needed any. They strolled around her neighborhood, hand in hand, walking past joggers, parents with children in strollers or on bikes, people walking their dogs.

After stopping to pet a friendly golden retriever, she asked him, "Would you ever get a dog? Or a cat?"

"Either, I suppose," he replied. "A cat is more practical with our work schedule. But I like dogs."

"What kind?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "Something from the shelter probably. A mutt. Something with character."

She beamed at him, and he didn't know why.

They strolled farther than they'd intended, winding their way through a city park. He bought two hot dogs from a vendor and tossed the meat, breaking the buns up to feed a group of pigeons. He watched Teresa stretch, one hand braced against a tree, blatantly ogled the way her yoga pants clung to her backside.

He thought about biting the skin just under her rump, against the back of her thigh. He was amazed at how he'd managed to suppress his urges over the years. Now that he'd tasted her, he wanted more. He was half crazy with it.

The walked back to her home, still holding hands. He kept his desire in check, not wanting to pressure her, not wanting to rush things. He wanted to savor their new relationship, enjoy each little step as it came.

True to his prediction, she pulled a book off the end table and stretched out on the couch to read. He made a face, as clearly her couch was his territory, and she rolled her eyes, shifting over. He sat down, and she laid her head in his lap.

He stroked her hair and mindlessly watched television while she read. Later he poured her a glass of wine and made himself a cup of herbal tea, rooibos with cinnamon and clove. Around seven she said, "I'm hungry. Do you want to go out for a pizza?"

She drove and they ate greasy pizza and ordered a pitcher of Coke. After they walked down the street to a movie theater, and paid an absurd about of money to see some action movie that interested her. In the dark of the theater, she rested her head on his shoulder, her hand on his leg. He watched the screen, absorbing nothing. If someone asked him what the movie was about, he wouldn't have been able to recall single detail. All her knew was that she was close to him, and he could smell her hair, and he had to right to hold her and touch her like this now. It was a heady feeling, like floating, like nirvana.

It was after midnight when they returned to her house. The Airstream was still parked out front, no doubt annoying the neighbors. He didn't want to presume anything, but she pulled him inside by the hand and led him to her bedroom.

He let her take the lead, his pulse throbbing in his neck. Did she want to make love? Was _he_ ready for that?

Standing in the jasmine-scented darkness of her bedroom, she stood on tip toe and kissed him, her mouth soft and warm. He sighed against her, grabbing handfuls of her thick, dark hair. She started to undress him, fingers carefully undoing each button before pushing his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to a heap on the floor. Her hands traced his chest, his shoulders.

He reached for the hem of her tee-shirt, tugged it over her head. She was wearing a soft-pink bra, and he traced the swell of her breast with his fingertips.

He stepped out of his shoes when she began unfastening his belt, her fingers brushing his erection as she unzipped his pants. He was breathing hard now.

She drew his slacks and underwear off, kneeling in front of him, pulling off his socks and he stepped out of his pants. She looked up at him, her hands gently tracing his thighs.

His mouth was dry.

"Teresa," he said raggedly.

She grasped his length and he let out his breath in a hiss. She stroked him, looking up at him with dark eyes. "I want to give you this," she said.

He felt his stomach contract at her words, a thrill of pleasure running through him. It had been over a decade since someone had touched him like this. She knew that. She wanted to give him back what he'd lost, what he'd cast aside in his misery.

"You don't have to," he said roughly.

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously," she said. The more gently, "Are you always this noble?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't think so."

When she took him in her mouth, he let out a string of curses, his hands moving instinctively to her hair. He stroked the glossy locks, carefully not to guide her, to let her set the pace. Her tongue traced the underside of his erection, then around the head, before she pulled him back into her throat.

He groaned, his head falling back.

She continued the pattern until his hands were shaking, sweat beading on his forehead. He felt the bite of her fingernails against his buttocks, as she increased her pace, her mouth a hot, wet torment.

He was shaking when he came. He tried to warn her, but she didn't seem to care.

"God," he said after, his breathing ragged and erratic.

"I thought you were an atheist," she teased.

"I thought I was too," he replied.

She stood and he pulled her into his arms, hugging her tightly, kissing the crown of her head.

"Can I return the favor?" he asked against her ear, his voice husky.

"Mmm, not tonight," she murmured, wrapping her arms tightly around him. "Tonight was for you."

Saint Teresa. Always giving. He owed her seduction, hours of mindless, boneless pleasure. He wondered if she was deferring because she didn't wasn't ready or because she was tired or any other myriad possibilities his brain was too pleasure-soaked to consider.

He made the bed with clean sheets while she brushed her teeth. He watched her change into her red nightgown, then slipped into bed beside her, still naked. He wondered if he should have asked to stay.

When she rolled over and rested her head on his chest, arm and leg thrown across him, he decided it was okay.

It was four a.m. when her phone rang.

Despite being clearly half asleep, her voice awake and alert when she answered, "Lisbon."

"Okay," she said into the darkness. Then, "I'll call him."

She hung up the phone and poked him in the ribs.

"There's been a kidnapping," she said.


	10. Lipton

_**Lipton**_

They moved around each other with choreographed ease. She got in the shower. He started the coffee, went out to the Airstream for a fresh set of clothes. When he returned she was pouring herself a cup, and he went into the bathroom. She'd set out a new toothbrush from him, and unexpectedly, it made him smile.

He showered, using her soap, reflecting on the fact that he'd smell exactly like her. She didn't go for flowery, feminine brands. Her bodywash smelled citrusy and clean. He used her shampoo, her conditioner. He could forgo shaving.

When he was drying off she knocked, asking, "Can I?" as she stepped inside to grab her makeup kit and blow dryer.

"It's all yours," he said, slipping past her to dress in the bedroom. He heard the hum of her blow-drying her hair, and he took a few moments to make the bed.

When she came out of the bathroom, suitably made up and wrapped in a white, puffy robe, he pressed a fast kiss to her mouth. "I'll meet you there," he said.

He drove the Airstream back to the FBI, the parking lot dark and empty in the early hour. He beat her to the bullpen by fifteen minutes. Abbott and Wylie were already there, and Fischer and Cho followed soon after.

Abbott pointed to a picture of a child that Wylie put up on the screen. "This is Andrew Young," he said. "Nine-year-old son of Sarah and Martin Young. His parents own the Young restaurant group."

The boy was pale, carrot-haired and covered in freckles. In the picture he was smiling, his mother's arms wrapped around him. He was skinny in the way that children that age are, all legs and elbows and narrow shoulders.

"He was kidnapped out of his bedroom last night," Abbott said. "The security system was bypassed, and the killer jimmied the front door. A ransom note demanding five million dollars was left behind."

"Do the parents have it?" Jane asked. He was standing. Lisbon stood next to him, a little too close. He would have to warn her to watch her subconscious movements if she really wanted them to remain a secret.

"Yes," Fischer said.

"Then tell them to pay the ransom," he replied. "Their child is worth more than five million dollars."

"The money isn't the issue," Abbott said. "We're not just here to facilitate the ransom exchange. The MO of the kidnapping belongs to a group from Columbia who has started operating inside the United States. They're violent, and unpredictable."

Wylie clicked his computer and several other pictures came up on the screen. They were of bodies, some in ditches or fields, some in the morgue. None of them were children.

"Sometimes the victim is returned to the family, sometimes the body is found nearby. If they panic, there's a very good chance they'll kill the boy," Abbott said.

"Uh, no there isn't," Jane replied. "None of those victims were children. It's a different group."

Lisbon turned to look at him. Her arms were crossed. "They might be branching out." She turned to Abbott. "Did Andrew struggle? Wake his parents?"

"No," said the senior agent. "He didn't cry out."

"So he knew his kidnapper," Jane replied.

"Possibly," Abbott said. "Or he was drugged. The idea of inside job occurred to me as well. That's why we'll be working in teams. Lisbon, you and Fischer will work the Columbian angle. Cho and Jane will investigate the possibility that the kidnapper is someone in the family or close to them. I don't need to remind you that we don't have much time, people."

XXX

The next three days passed in a blur. Jane pulled all of his usual tricks, feeling more than slightly nauseated when he alienated and offended the grieving, terrified parents in order to gauge their reactions. It was apparent they weren't involved.

He suspected that the kidnapper was a stranger when Cho found the boy's stuffed dinosaur under the bed. It was ragged, well-loved. Sarah Young held it, sobbing, confirming that Andrew wouldn't sleep without it. Had the kidnapper really known the boy, he would have snatched the toy in order to keep him calm.

He passed Lisbon in the office occasionally, dropping a cup of coffee off for her or a sandwich when they worked late at night. He slept on the couch or in the Airstream, for a few hours at a time. She only stopped to shower and change clothes, although he convinced her to doze on the sofa for an hour or two when she looked particularly exhausted.

She and Fischer facilitated the ransom exchange on the third day, marked bills, of course. The money was taken, and they followed the pickup man to a crowded shopping mall where he was lost in the crowd.

Jane rubbed her shoulders when she slammed her fist on the desk, not caring who saw them.

In the end it was Wylie who solved the case, using closed circuit television to ID the pickup and trace his accounts to a storage unit rental. Fischer and Lisbon broke the lock on the unit, opening the door, guns drawn.

Andrew Young was inside, curled up on a dirty blanket, dehydrated and terrified, but alive. Lisbon rode with him in the ambulance refusing to leave his side. Jane drove her car to the hospital, and stood outside the room as he was reunited with his parents.

Seeing Sarah and Martin hold their son, sobbing, relieved, ecstatic, made him feel at turns grateful and resentful at their joy.

Mostly, he just felt exhausted.

Lisbon walked down the hospital corridor toward him, a paper cup in her hands. She handed it to him. "it's all they had," she said apologetically.

It was tea, Lipton. He curled his lip but sipped it. It was hot and the best thing he'd tasted in days. "You need sleep," he said, after a moment.

"So do you," she replied, as he fell into step beside her. They walked down the mostly dark hallways, past sleeping patients, toward the elevator.

"I'm used to going without," he said. He felt wrinkled and grubby, his jacket slung over his arm. "Abbott is giving the team the rest of the week off to recuperate."

He had been thinking about renting them a suite at the Four Seasons. They had a long weekend and nothing to do but sleep and recharge and forget the ugliness that came with a child victim. And he'd been thinking a lot about her, on her knees in the dark bedroom.

He owed her seduction. He'd hinted at it, flirted with her over the years. She deserved a long weekend of nothing but mindless pleasure and champagne baths and him rubbing her aching muscles. It had been so long since he'd made love to a woman, but he knew Teresa better than he knew himself sometimes. He was confident that he could make her breathless and incoherent, that he could access all of her secret, dark little fantasies.

He wanted their first time to be about her, about proving to her that twelve years was worth the wait.

He followed her into the elevator, his hand on the small of her back. Once the doors closed she leaned against him, and it took him a moment to register that she was crying.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her hair. "It's okay," he said. "He's back home now."

She wiped her eyes. "I know," she said hoarsely. "I just keep thinking about how they left him there to starve. How terrified he was. How close we came to failing."

"Hey," he said, and kissed her softly. "You did it. You and Kim and Wylie."

"I'm still shaking," she admitted.

The elevator opened to the darkened parking garage, mostly full despite the late hour. He led her to her car, wondering if she'd let him spend the night holding her.

"I'll drive," he offered, and she didn't fight.

When he slid into the driver's seat she reached for him, leaning across the console to touch his jaw, her fingers brushing against his beard. He turned his head and she kissed him, opened his lips with hers, filled his mouth with her tongue. Her passion was sudden and unexpected and felt a shiver work down his spine.

He kissed her back, putting his hand on the back of her head, feeling all the anxiety and sleeplessness and adrenaline of the past three days course through his blood. His lips were rough on hers, beard scratching her face, teeth nipping. His hand fisted in her hair. It was relief and fear and love all funneled into the primal urge to mate, to experience the moment, precious and fleeting as it was.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she moaned. His hand slipped under her blazer to squeeze her breast, pinch the nipple. They kissed until the car was steamy and warm, until he could feel her shaking.

Her hands were shaking as the fell to her belt. "Put the seat back," she ordered breathlessly, tugging her slacks down and dropping them on the floor.

"Shit," he said, realizing what was happening. He reclined the seat, put it as far back as possible. Her hands were on his slacks then, opening them, unzipping them, grasping his erection in a trembling hand.

He held his breath when she moved over him, crawling across the center console and placing her knees awkwardly on either side of his hips. He was suddenly grateful that Teresa favored SUVs with large and spacious seating.

She looked up at him from behind a fall of dark hair. Her eyes were liquid, emerald green, intense. "Please," she begged, bracing her hands on his shoulders.

He couldn't have told her no if his life depended on it. He took himself in hand and guided himself to her. The first touch of her wet heat made him gasp, throw his head back. She felt impossibly tight as he worked his way inside of her and for a moment he wondered if it was too much, if she was in pain. He went slow, sweat beading his forehead as he pushed into her, inch by inch, forcing her body open to accept him. Not enough foreplay, he thought, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He opened his eyes. Her own head was thrown back, her mouth open in a soundless O. She sank fully down onto him, eyes squeezed closed, body contracting in pleasure.

That was when he stopped thinking, when the world as red and pink and hazy and all about feeling. The ache building low in his belly made him grasp her hips with bruising force. She clutched his shoulders, nails biting his skin. Her breath came in panting sobs as she rolled her hips, rose, fell.

He couldn't tear his gaze from her, clothed from the waist up, her cross swinging hypnotically with her movements. He felt her grow impossibly tighter, and he pressed his thumb to her clit, pressing, stroking, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

She screamed, a strangled, half choked sound, and he felt her convulse, a groan tearing its way from this throat. She was wetter, hotter, her body slumping forward on his. He grasped her behind her thighs and moved her slender form over his as he thrust violently into her, his movements uncontrolled. She was small and light, and he lifted her with ease, manipulating her body. Again he wondered if he was too rough, but he noticed her uneven breathing wasn't from pain.

"Jane," she gasped, her breath hot in his ear. "Patrick! Patrick."

He felt her come again, her hips jerk spasmodically, even as his own orgasm coursed through him, a litany of incoherent words escaping him.

For a moment they lay there, damp, sticky, her hair clinging to his sweaty face.

She buried her face against his neck, kissed him there. "I love you," she said weakly.

He wrapped his arms around her, clutching her to his body. "Love you too."


End file.
